I Should've Kept My Mouth Shut
by dinosaurscantclap
Summary: Hermoine panics on a plane ride, thinking the plane will crash, and starts telling her embarrassing secrets to the stranger beside her. Or was he really a stranger? Loosely based on Sophie Kinsella's Can You Keep A Secret. AU, Post-Hogwarts, EWE


**A/N:** First attempt to make a Dramoine fanfic. I've written a fanfic long ago in my other account but it's not a Harry Potter fic so I'm all new to the Harry Potter / Dramoine fanfic universe so characters may come off as a bit OOC. This is a post-Hogwarts, AU fic. Please forgive me for inconsistencies in grammar, plot, and character development. I haven't written a fanfic for a long time. I do hope you enjoy this one though. :)

I might make this a multi-chapter fic. I'm still thinking about it.

**Disclaimer:** The usual drill… characters belong to JK Rowling, plot is loosely based on Sophie Kinsella's Can You Keep A Secret, babablahblahblah…

I hate airplanes. I hate hot air balloons, I hate broomsticks. I hate everything that you ride on and sends you 10,700 feet into the air.

I hate flying.

You might think I'm stupid, or ask me, why would you take an airplane the ride home then? Why didn't you just take a ship or that underwater train thing they built that connected England and France. Or if you're from the wizard world, why can't you just floo from your parents house to your home? Well, here's how it all happened.

My parents held this Christmas gathering with my relatives in France. Of course there were drinks, lots of them, and my cousins and I got a little… well, drunk. Because of this, we played this drunken game of truth or dare, I chose dare when that damned bottle decided to point at me, and my cousins think it would be funny to dare me into riding an airplane going home instead of using the train that passes through Channel Tunnel (of course this was a lie, I flooed going here).

At least I got even with them by demanding to be seated in the business class.

So here I am, seated on the window side of the fifth row, business class section of a Boeing 737, tapping my knee nervously waiting for the plane to take off in Paris International Airport. Great. Now if we had a head on collision, I'll be one of the first people to die.

Just as I was pondering on the possible ways I can die on flight this cursed airplane, I felt someone sitting beside me. I was somehow comforted since at least I know someone will be beside me if I die. Okay, Hermoine. Stop scaring yourself. This is just one of those short routine flights. The pilot has probably gone back and forth London and Paris for about 10 years now. You'll be okay. You'll be okay. You'll be okay.

I've decided to put on the headphones and listen to the music playlist here in the inflight entertainment system. Most muggle songs here I did not recognize, only the Beatles songs my parents used to play in the house a lot before. I randomly picked an artist and ended up choosing this muggle band called Maroon 5 and decided put the songs on shuffle. The first song that played was called Never Gonna Leave This Bed and it immediately relaxed me. I thought they'd be like those stereotype rock bands with the guitar solos and loud wails and screams they claim as music.

The song has just ended when I felt the plane move. Okay, the moment of truth. The Maroon 5 song currently playing is not relaxing me anymore, but I kept the headphones on just in case. I threw my head back then gasped for air. Adding my discomfort is the fact that I can feel my seatmate is staring at me. This git is boring through my skull. This is so embarrassing because I know he can sense that I'm scared. Great. I added mental note to never look at him during the entire course of the flight (I inferred he's a man since he's wearing an obviously expensive men's leather shoes and black slacks. Probably a business man). I closed my eyes as I felt the airplane gaining speed in the runway. As it acquired speed, my heart also beat faster. And it went faster and faster until I felt it fly. Let 45 minutes of torture begin.

15 minutes after take-off  
>This is turning out to be better better than I thought. The airplane is flying steadily. I continued listening to Maroon 5 but I can still feel Mr. Businessman staring at me. Has somebody told him that staring is rude?<p>

20 minutes after take-off  
>The plane was no longer flying steadily. It started shaking. I held onto my arm rest, my knuckles are turning white. This is not good. Damn that champagne. Damn that red wine. Damn that brandy. Damn that rum. Damn that my cousins. Damn even that lady who answered the phone when my cousins reserved tickets. Damn every single person that put me in this plane. The plane is getting shakier as time goes by. Oh Merlin there's the lightning. I'm going to die before this plane can even crash.<p>

What does a person do when he's pretty sure the plane they're on is going to crash? Maybe pray, or write a final goodbye to their loved ones using tissue, or probably cry.

Not me.

My brain which most of the time helps me and my friends get out of trouble, is not functioning very well yet again. It decided that now that I'm dying, I shall say my deepest darkest secrets to Mr. Businessman. Oh well. At least when we die, my secrets die with us.  
>"Even if I was the smartest girl in school before, I still get confused by the spelling of acknowledgement and privilege," I start to blabber.<br>"I never had a serious boyfriend in my 23 years of existence and it bothers me. My friend gave me this shirt that was really horrible so I threw it away and now, she's asking me to wear it. The coffee in our workplace is horrible. So is the food."  
>As if on cue, a lightning matched with a loud thunder boomed throughout the sky. I gasped but I continued.<br>"I enjoyed watching cartoons with my nephews and nieces when I as in France. There's this annoying girl at the office who is seated beside me and whenever I get annoyed with her, I put some files I knew she needed under her pile of files. I can't swim and I hate flying. I ate a whole jar of cookies in one sitting, by myself. I lie about my shirt size. A lot. I am obsessed with chic-lit books. I curse a lot when I'm drunk. I hide my diary under the second level of my drawer. I hate the person who funds my research, he should be replaced. I am a wi…"

"Granger, we've landed five minutes ago."

Granger, how did Mr. Businessman know my… and as I looked at the person sitting next to me, it dawned to me that Mr. Businessman, whom I've told 90 % of my secrets is none other than…

"DRACO MALFOY?"


End file.
